


Turn The World Around

by genee



Category: Popslash
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-05-31
Updated: 2006-05-31
Packaged: 2017-10-12 06:06:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/121653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/genee/pseuds/genee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>You should have known about this long before Nancy O'Dell stuck a microphone in your face and asked what you thought about one of your best buds adopting a bouncing baby boy.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Turn The World Around

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Lambs Day 2006. Title and inspiration from _We Haven't Turned the World Around_ , by Gomez.

Lance has always been good with the press, maybe not in the same way some people are good, he's not always polished and perfect but he's always been willing, and he's always got something he's happy to talk about. Of course, he's always got something else, too, something he isn't happy to talk about, but for whatever reason, the press has never seemed to mind. You've never minded, either.

In fact, it's one of your favorite things about him, one of the things you miss the most. There was a time when you always knew what he wasn't talking about, when you always knew _first_ , and even after that time had passed you were still fluent enough in Lance-speak that you could almost always figure it out, because maybe you were a selfish ass, you were willing to concede on that one, but you knew him better than anyone and you could read between the lines.

You thought you could, anyway, and looking back now you think you really should have known, it was all there, but you just keep coming back to how you really didn't know anything at all. You play it all back over and over and all you see is the look in your eyes, hurt so plain you think the whole world must have seen it there, too, and isn't that typical, you think, _it's all about you_ , but the voice in your head sounds like Lance and it isn't fair, not this time, because you should have known about this long before Nancy O'Dell stuck a microphone in your face and asked what you thought about one of your best buds adopting a bouncing baby boy.

"I think it's fantastic," you see yourself saying, smiling bright and standing there like a moron, still trying to figure out which one of your friends could possibly have done something so huge without you knowing about it. Of course, you've spent years with the only woman on the planet who doesn't want to have your babies, and doesn't want anything to do with anyone else's babies, either, so maybe it's not so much of a surprise after all. "Fantastic," you say again, and then they show a few seconds of shaky video, Lance at the airport, a squirming blue bundle in his arms, pink cheeks and big eyes and you feel your heart drop somewhere around your knees.

Lance must be furious about this, you think, amateur video, probably accidental, just caught in the background of someone else's homecoming. You keep smiling because it's Access Hollywood and you can't be sure what they'll air and what they won't, and all you can do is cover the mic during the cutaway and whisper to Nancy that you've got to go. You offer to come back another time and you smile and wink and hope to god she let's you off the hook, which she does, but only because Aleksandr James Bass is ten months old and absolutely beautiful, born in Russia and adopted by Lance _three fucking weeks ago_ , and Nancy's been doing this for way too long not to know there's a story here, especially when it's having a panic attack sixteen inches to her left.

It takes you five days to end things with Cameron. Five days of seeing Lance every time you close your eyes, remembering the look in his eyes at Bri's baptism, remembering how he smiled the first time he held Leighton, and how he cried after, _happy tears_ , he said, but you knew it was more than that, knew they were sad tears, too, and some kind of lonely you hadn't really understood back then. You remember how much you wanted to call him when you found out he'd become an uncle again, but you couldn't remember his new nephew's name and you didn't want to call any of the guys and ask, because that was a whole can of worms you couldn't bring yourself to open, either.

Five days, and Lance still hasn't released a statement, although a couple of snapshots have surfaced, black and whites and there's something about the grays, the way Lance is just beaming at Aleksandr, both of them laughing, and you know they were taken in Russia. You tell yourself you should have known when the space rumors started up again, when he started going back and forth to Russia and talking about his dreams, about how much he always wanted to be an astronaut. You'd known something was up, you really had, because you knew Lance wouldn't put himself through all that, not with the Russians, not again.

Five days, and you're saying good-bye to your girlfriend and moving out of your own house and maybe it's not the best PR move you've ever made, but whatever, it's just a house. She wants it, and it feels right, and fuck, it's just cleaner this way. You have lawyers and publicists and half a staff whose names you aren't even sure of anymore, but you know they'll take care of the rest. You tell yourself it's better this way, and it is. Already you feel lighter, rolling out in one of your big black SUVs, sunglasses on, just driving for the first time in forever.

Calling your mom is easy, she's never liked Cameron as much as she wishes she did, and she always supports you, always, even when she knows you're fucking things up. Calling Chris is harder. He's less patient with your fuck-ups, especially when he's seen them coming from far enough out that he's had time to draw you pictures and make diagrams, charts with an excruciating level of detail that explain in no uncertain terms how wrong you are and/or will be at some point in the future. Even now you suspect he's always had help with that part, though. Charts really aren't Chris's thing.

It's been a long time, but Chris still answers his phone, "Speak to me, baby," and his voice still does funny things to your insides, and suddenly, you have no idea what to say. There's noise in the background, and then it's quieter, Chris in motion, his fingers over the speaker while he checks the caller ID. He swears softly, and then not so softly, "Fuck you, Timberlake," he says, and it's a good thing you pulled over, white knuckles on the steering wheel and all the words you should have said caught up in your throat. "I don't hear from you in how long and now you're gonna insult me with a lameass _prank call_? Heavy breathing? Dude, I taught you better than this. Seriously. It's probably just nerves, right? You're out of practice and shit. Don't worry, J, it's like riding a bike... Oh, hey, you still ride?"

"Yeah. No. Not in long time, man." If you hadn't been trained to keep going no matter what, you'd have stopped right there, drifted right into bikes and bullshit and Chris might let you get away with it, might let you make plans to go riding next time you're in town and crack jokes and talk about the weather, but then again he might not, and anyway, that's not why you called him. "Uhm, yeah," you say, swallowing hard, forcing yourself to open your eyes when you speak. "I'm leaving Cameron. Left her. About an hour ago. And I know I've been gone a long time and I'm an ass and whatever, none of that's really changed.... _Fuck_. Chris? You there, man?"

"Fuck you, Timberlake," he says again, but this time you feel your chest open up, and you know it's going to be okay. "I had money on you holding out another week, man. JC called it, the little shit. You headed over there now? He's probably expecting you."

As a matter of fact, you didn't give it much thought when you left, where you were going, what you'd do next, you just knew it was time. Now or never, you'd thought, almost laughing, promising yourself you'd call Carter one of these days, say hey, catch up. You have a lot of catching up to do. "Chris," you say, interrupting him because Chris is still taking, something about JC and collecting and you don't want to know. "Chris, fuck, have you seen him?"

Chris is smiling now, you can hear it, even though you aren't sure why. "Booked the flight and everything, man, one week from today, figured I'd drag your sorry ass out of the house if it came to that, but Lance took the munchkin to Mississippi when those pictures leaked, so I changed the dates. Anyway, hey, look at the time. See you in a couple weeks, J?"

Lance is in Mississippi. You love Chris. "You know it, man. Thank you."

Chris laughs out loud then, is still laughing when you start the car again, like you said something really funny when you didn't, you didn't at all. "Don't thank me yet," he says, but you can still hear him laughing even after he hangs up.

* * *

Lance might not be home, it's getting late and you know you should have called first but you didn't, because if you called first there's a good chance Lance would have told you to fuck off, and unlike Chris, Lance would actually mean it. Besides, you're harder to resist in person and Lance always said you should play to your strengths.

So, here you are. It takes you ten minutes just to get out of the rental car, and now you're standing on the front porch like a stalker or something, trying to decide if you should ring the bell or not, because what if the baby's sleeping? You really should have called, you were raised better than this, and you're about to leave when the door opens and Lance is right there, smiling, phone pressed to his ear and Aleksandr on his shoulder, his little face turned away so all you can see are pale wisps hair and the curl of his ear, a bit of his cheek, all smooth and soft looking and pink. He fusses a little and Lance murmurs in Russian, you catch _shhh_ and _Sasha_ and you think the rest is maybe nonsense but it makes your heart beat crazy nonetheless.

He presses his cheek to the baby's head as he waves to some woman across the street, a worried neighbor, and man, you forgot what it's like to have those. You forgot a lot of things, apparently, like the sound of Lance's voice in full drawl, the way he laughs when he means it, the way he says _yes m'am, thank you,_ before he hangs up the phone. The way he looks at you, really looks at you, and there's something about it that makes you turn around and wave at his neighbor, too, like she did you a big favor by ratting you out to Lance, and really, you guess she did.

"Well, don't stand there like a stranger," Lance says, opening the door a little wider. "Come on in, man."

"Lance," you say, and your voice sounds funny in your ears, soft and drifty and Lance is someone's _father_ now, he adopted a baby from half way around the world and you found out about it from Nancy fucking O'Dell, and suddenly you think this whole thing is a big mistake, huge, and then Lance brushes the back of his fingers over your cheek and smiles and you hope to god it's not a trick of the light. "I'm sorry," you say, and then, "I, Lance, I--"

But Lance just shakes his head and says, "Oh, hey, no. Don't."

Aleksandr wiggles and Lance shifts him around so he can look at you, look you over, really, all big blue eyes and pouty little lips and you wonder what he thinks of you, if anything, and then Lance says, "Hey, you wanna hold him a minute? There's laundry in the dryer and he's not crazy about the bouncy chair yet," and the next thing you know there's a baby in your arms and Lance's voice is trailing down the hallway, something about his mom and dinner and Aleksandr twists his fingers into the collar of your shirt and yawns, his face falling on your shoulder, warm and sweet and changing everything, just like that.

 _Five minutes_ , you think, and it's pretty impressive, really. You'd expected it take longer, although maybe you shouldn't have since you fell for Lance in about five minutes, too, back in the day.

"Listen up, little man," you tell the baby as you wander though Lance's house, looking at the pictures on the walls and talking softly, your hand cupped around the back of his head. Lance's house reminds you of the house you grew up in, only newer. It's probably nicer, too, but it feels the same, homey and close. It feels like a good place to grow up. Normal and easy and by the time you find Aleksandr's room you're pretty sure he's asleep, and still, you can't bring yourself to lay him down. "I'm gonna need my heart back when I go," you whisper into his hair, and he sighs a little, his bare feet twitching against your ribs. "Your pops and me, we got a history, and I'm not sure he's gonna want me to stick around."

"Oh, it's already too late for that," Lance says from somewhere behind you, his voice pitched warm and low, and you can tell without looking that he's smiling. "You're sticking around for a while, for sure. You think he sleeps like that for everybody? Because he _doesn't_."

You look at him then, really look, and even though you've never seen him look happier than he does right now, clean laundry piled on one arm, sheets and towels and a dozen little primary-colored rompers all folded into neat squares, a baby monitor plunked on top, you see how tired he is, too. There's so much you want to say, questions you want to ask, why, how, why _now_ , but you figure all that can wait.

Lance sets the laundry down on the dresser by the window, pale sun shining through the curtains and you close your eyes for a minute, try to fix the memory of him just like this, eyes crinkled up in the corners despite the shadows underneath, smiling and happy and softer than you've seen him in years. Lance is a father now, and when he runs his fingers through his hair you see glints of silver, streaks of all the time you've missed, all the things you can't ever make up for now, no matter how much you want to. And you do. Want to. You want to spin the world around and just _go back_ , do it right this time, do it better.

You want to, but maybe you wouldn't even if you could. Aleksandr's a warm weight in your arms and he smells like Lance and soap and baby, and when you open your eyes Lance is right there. "Lance," you say, and Lance leans up and kisses you, sweet and hot and open, fingers carding through the curls at the back of your neck, just like always. "Lance, _fuck_."

"Language," Lance says, laughing under his breath as he lifts the baby from your arms and settles him in the crib, pressing a kiss to his temple. Aleksandr whimpers and Lance soothes him in Russian, _Sasha_ and _baby_ and _love you_ , and you wonder all over again about Lance's time in Star City, if maybe it wasn't worth it after all.

When he tilts his head toward the door you back out slowly, watching as his fingers trail across his son's back before he looks away from the crib, snags the baby monitor from the dresser and quietly closes the door.

"We should maybe talk," you say, and Lance's eyes flash bright. You think talking isn't really what he has in mind. He presses you back against the wall, one hand behind your head and his thigh between your legs, and already you're hard. It's so right, the way his body fits against yours, the way he feels, the way he sounds, the way you sound together, but then, this has always been right between you, even when everything else was wrong. "Lance, fuck, I wish I'd been here sooner."

"You're here now," he says, and you swallow all the words you thought he'd want to hear. He bites your lip, sharp and hot before he kisses you again. Your hands slide over his ass, and he hums low in his throat, and you feel like you've been missing this forever. "You're here now," he says again, pulling away a little, watching you close. "You _are_ here, aren't you?"

You nod.

"Yeah, that's good," he says, and your hips stutter against his. He's still got a baby monitor in his right hand, and there's something on his shoulder that might or might not be spit up, and you have never wanted him more. "That's real good, J. How about we talk later? Sasha's adoption won't be final for six months. Five months, now. We can do a lot of talking in five months, and you can woo us, and after that, we'll see, yeah?"

You don't know what he means exactly, about the adoption and the timing but it doesn't matter because he's offering you something here, and maybe it's more than you deserve but that's been true of everything good that's of ever happened to you, and you've never let it stop you before. "I can do that, yeah. I can do all of that, Lance, I--"

"I know," he says slowly, and there's something in his voice that makes you blink hard, makes you flush and smile and thank god for this moment in a million quiet fervent ways. "I've always known, Justin. Always."  
   
   


\--End--


End file.
